


Unbroken Vows

by AeonWing



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Abandonment, Alcohol, Angst, Boys In Love, Dark History, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Fluff, Heavy Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Triggers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8713963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonWing/pseuds/AeonWing
Summary: Doublelift is faced with his new support as his past haunts him. What he thought he had gotten over a lifetime ago only serves to weigh him down a lifetime longer.Little does he know the boy who smiles back at him struggles the same.Little does he know what's hidden behind that relentlessly sunny disposition.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the huge hiatus. I also changed the direction of the story but I guarantee you it'll be regularly updated now. Prepare for tons of angst and hopefully also a bit of fluff <333
> 
> Thanks to everyone who still wants to read it :)

** Sunday, April 17th, 2016 **

  
Thousands… Tens of thousands of cheers echo throughout the stadium. One quick glance and anyone would know that the venue was sold out. Mandalay Bay, Las Vegas.  
Yet however loud the cheers were, none of it was entering Doublelift’s head. He wasn’t processing any of it. All he knew was that he was staring at a grey screen for what would be the last time this game.

“It’s just you, it’s just you,” said Doublelift, masking the despair that was quickly mounting. Mere moments later, Svenskeren’s Kindred fell, sealing the deal. It was over.

  
“Lulu has TP,” Sven spoke, drowned out by the roaring of the crowd as CLG pushed for the win.

  
“That’s game…” Doublelift sighed, resting his eyes for the first time in this tense, 5 game series against CLG. “Well… we tried our best guys.”

  
“And they’re going to walk with to their second consecutive North American LCS championship!” Kobe yelled, ecstatic.

And that was enough to bring Peter back to his senses, only for him to wish he could still stay zoned out in this surreal reality. There was nothing as terrible as being forced to sit there as the Nexus fell uncontested. There was nothing as terrible as seeing his former team rise to glory as TSM’s hyped roster fell from grace.

  
And there was nothing as disappointing as losing after putting in countless hours of practice, only to fall short in a critical game 5. Peter knew he could have played better that series, even if the blame was not entirely rightfully placed on him.  
But that’s the way he’s always approached League of Legends, and that was all he could feel at the moment.

“It’s over…” Whispered a voice, barely audible. It didn’t matter who spoke it.

Peter opened his eyes one last time, watching as his former support Aphromoo hugged his rookie marksman Stixxay enthusiastically. If circumstances were different he could have said he’d feel happy for his former team do so well.

  
But that wasn’t reality. Reality was harsh, stark, and cruel. The next moments passed in a blur, his fragmented mind failing to piece together anything that came as he absent-mindedly shook the hands of his former teammates.

  
He could only watch as CLG walked to the giant trophy in front of a massive crowd as confetti rained from the ceiling, matched only by the undying roar of an adrenaline-pumped crowd. He could feel the tears coming, but the man was far too proud to let them fall, at least not on camera, at least not in front of his teammates, and most definitely not in front of the man he once considered the best support he could have ever dreamed for. And so he put his head down, stifled the tears, and found some level of peace.

  
“Something needs to change.”

* * *

 

**  
**

 


	2. Stuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. I know where I want to take this now.
> 
> Yes, Aphromoo will be a central character along with the Biolift crew ^^
> 
> Prepare for tons of angst and fluff.

**_August 23rd, 2015_ **

_“And the faithful shall be rewarded! CLG take the inhibitor, they’re taking the nexus turrets, and they’re going to take a trip to Worlds!”_

_And the cheers grew louder, stronger, as did that burning glow, the desire to win in my core. I’m on the Nexus, and I know it will fall. I know we have clinched our spot at Worlds. And I know that I’ve earned it. The first time in three years. I will be at Worlds._

_And finally the Nexus falls. I turn my head, almost instinctively, to the man I call my support, my partner. Whatever you want to call him._

_And I know he’s just as ecstatic as I am._

_Partnership. That’s what this was. That’s what it’ll always be._

_…Right?_

 

* * *

 

  **Now**

The scrim room is empty, and honestly a little cold, despite the searing heat of the summer. The air conditioning is a little strong, Peter feels, but it is nonetheless a welcoming environment. A room he calls his workplace. A workplace he calls home.

He glances at his phone. It reads 10 AM. The sound of running water finally ceases, signifying that his teammates are done showering. It doesn’t take long for all of them to come in, for the stifling silence to become indistinct chatter.

One. Two. Three.

 

_Where’s Vincent?_

His eyes dart, instinctively seeking for familiarity in the room, for the man he calls his support, his partner. He can make out a shirtless Kevin re-entering the room with a bowl of cereal. From the other corner of his eye, Søren and Dennis are probably sharing some friendly banter. Probably in English. Maybe Danish?

Peter can’t quite tell. There is something alarming about the missing Vincent. It feels irrational. He _knows_ it’s irrational.

But he can’t quite shake it off.

It is only then that he notices Kevin’s approaching figure. His eyes wander yet again, and Kevin’s reassuring smile takes front and center. At least it should feel reassuring.

But it somehow doesn’t.

“Peter, you okay?” He asks, brows furrowed in concern. It causes Peter to frown, even if the question momentarily distracts him. Apparently hiding his concern is not a strength he’s honed.

“Where’s…?” He begins, but his voice trails. He looks over to the empty seat.. The action speaks volumes, and he’s thankful he doesn’t need to finish his question. His eyes find their mark on Vincent’s seat. Where Bora used to sit, and perhaps an aeon ago, where Zaq used to sit.

His support. His partner.

“Oh,” Kevin replies, absent-mindedly crunching the cereal in his bowl. “He’s just talking to Regi.”

Well, that was reassuring.

“Why?”

“Dunno,” he responds, lifting his broad shoulders in a shrug. “Probably just a pep talk.”

Peter scowls at that. Why a pep talk? This is not their first time scrimming. They had tons of time in Korea. It just so happened that they were back in LA, a mere week before the start of the summer split.

“Here he comes,” Kevin murmurs, heading back to his seat.

His ears perk, and most certainly, he can hear the familiar voice like golden chimes in the background. It’s not even that the timbre of it sounds particularly appealing. There is just something about the presence of Vincent, even to one of the five senses that is particularly comforting.

His support. His partner.

“Andy, I’m fine, I’m fine,” Vincent sighs, the hint of annoyance in his voice clear.

“Yeah well, you got lost yesterday, remember? I guess the first time being in the TSM house showed, considering you couldn’t even find the washroom,” he laughs, and Peter can hear Vincent stifle a groan of frustration and embarrassment. He shoots a glance over at his mid and jungle, who merely shrug and respond with perplexing expressions.

The sound of incoming footsteps catches his attention, and in an instant, Peter’s eyes dart, away, away from the screen, and to the figure who just stepped into the room. Has it really only been a few days? Something is different. Different about the way he stands, the way he smiles.

 

_Confidence._

 

That’s what it is. The face of a boy unfazed by adversity, the thirst, the desire to improve is ever-evident in those dark, expressive pools. His eyes flicker, and for the briefest of moments, they meet Peter’s. It causes Peter to draw a shuddering breath, almost out of embarrassment, and he averts his gaze, almost as quick as Vincent did.

This makes no sense to him.

How the presence of Vincent can be comforting, yet the unsettling discomfort of eye contact exists. There was nothing of interest in his face, nothing to suggest that any words of interest or importance were waiting to be spoken. He mutters a quiet greeting, and sits down next to Peter, unfazed.

Indistinct chatter is still pervading the atmosphere, but none of it is reaching Peter’s ears. The growing thunder of his heart is becoming increasingly evident, and he can see concern filling the eyes of his support.

 

_Not good._

“Peter?”

“I’m... I’m fine,” he stutters, taking off his glasses with deliberation. Something, _anything_ to distract him from the growing awkwardness, however one sided, however irrational. He wipes them, making a conscious effort to hold in a deep breath.

 

_Why?_

 

Fortunately for him, Parth enters the room.

Peter’s eyes wander, and he almost forgets to put his glasses back on. From Kevin, to Dennis, to Søren, and finally Vincent, everyone is focused, the indistinct chatter has subsided. Such is the nature of all scrims, of the workplace. It feels almost surreal, that workspace and personal space become one, that the barrier is purely mental and not physical.

He’s grateful for this, as the awkwardness subsides and he can feel the reassuring drive to succeed course through his veins once more. Parth is speaking, his voice low and focused, and it works like magic; Peter’s mind straightens out.

He’s grateful for the existence of a scrim room. An environment dominated by the game, and not by interpersonal relationships, where freedom to express oneself had never been so easy, so effortless.

 

_Why is it always like this?_

 

The debriefing finishes, and Peter’s eyes flicker over to the screen, as champion select becomes front and center. He takes a deep cleansing breath, and everything feels normal. As if nothing was wrong. He finds the strength to speak again, and he’s surprised by the ease of how it flows, rolls off the tongue.

“Vincent, you ready?” He asks, the awkwardness gone.

His eyes dart over, meeting Vincent’s briefly.

“Yes,” he nods, unfazed. There is no indicator in his voice that anything was wrong, and his demeanor is as reserved as it was before. “Call the shots. I’ll follow.”

 

Their third scrim block of the day finally ends, as does time fly. One glance out the window and light is absent. Peter yawns, lazily rubbing his eyes as his league client started up. He would be lucky if he were to find a quick game this high up the ladder.

He glances over to the side, and notices that Vincent’s client is also open, but the boy himself is absent. He frowns at that, but that thought is quickly drowned out by thirst. Peter shrugs, shooting another quick glance at the queue timer. The estimated wait is effectively never accurate, and he’s confident he’ll be back in time.

He yawns again, thinking to himself that one game is all he really has the energy for, and steps into the kitchen. To his moderate surprise, he isn’t alone.

“Hey.”

Peter’s eyes instinctively dart over to the location of the sound, leading him to Vincent. Of course. Why else did Vincent have his league client open, waiting in queue?

He looked adorable, Cheshire grin breaking on his otherwise expressionless visage as Peter’s eyes met his, casually reaching for a can of soda from the fridge.

“Hey,” Peter replies, exhaling. “Were you going to play?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Do you want to duo?”

_Of course I do._

“Sure.”

 

 _He didn’t ask about today’s turn of events._  

 

Relief washes over him, like never before. He didn’t say no.

“I’ll see you in the scrim room,” he says, before reaching for a mug from the dishrack. The sound of dispensing water is calming, soothing, yet the absence of Vincent, of anyone, causes a sudden cold draft of air to brush by.

He was alone.

And in what was finally a personal moment, he allowed himself to take a glance at what he had avoided the entire day.

And to his dismay, no notification, no buzz, no light.

It was happening again. Peter could not fathom, could not explain why this was bothering so much. A damn phone call. A damn text. Something,  _anything_ to show him that the man he once called his partner still cared. It hurts, and it hurts more, as time drags on, as LCS approaches. Time slows to a crawl, and he's once more confronted with the reality that is loneliness. No one is in the kitchen. No one will hear him. Just as  _he_ hadn't, or more accurately, chose not to. The phone screen is unlocked, and he felt as if he was staring at what should be his emancipator, but in all reality was his tormentor. He hadn't kept many contacts listed, only the ones that were most dear to him.

And yet time and time again, it was exactly that. Those most dear to him that hurt him the most. And to his dismay, call history proved just that.

 

_Call to 213-386-9351  
_ _Los Angeles, California, 1 day ago_

_Call to 213-386-9351_

_Los Angeles, California, 2 days ago_

_Call to 213-386-9351_

_Los Angeles, California, 2 days ago_

 

What would it take for him to pick up? What would it take for him to start over? Peter fucked up. He fucked up hard, he knows it, but to be damned like this, condemened and ignored is too much for him. After everything, all his transgressions, surely he had apologized for his share in the disaster that tore them apart. His heart starts to thunder against his ribcage again, as does his breathing speed. It's deadly cold in the room, even if the blood is rushing through his veins, even as he moves a sweaty finger over to the call button. It takes a great deal of willpower to press it again. He's forced to relive everything. From start to end.

It rings once. It rings twice. It rings a third time.

 

"Peter?" Vincent's voice travels, loud and clear. 

 

_Shit._

 

Peter's heart skips a beat, freezing on the spot. Vincent isn't there, no. He's just yelling from the scrim room, he's not there in the room with him. There are no eyes on him, there cannot possibly be any. He's alone, as he always was. Solitude was something he's always feared, but this time he can't describe if that's for the better or the worst. No one knows. No one but Peter... And _him._

 

Always _him._

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was late. How late, Peter wouldn’t be able to answer, save for another glance at the lit screen of his phone, something he daren’t touch, daren’t read. When was the last time he heard a buzz, a notification? He had turned off notifications for everything.

Everything, except for one thing.

His mind urged him to pick up the phone, to check if he had replied, if he had left a call in his absence, but he knew there was no logic, no rationale in doing such a thing. His phone would not lie to him, and the absence of a vibration or flashing light spoke volumes.

It was always during these times that he felt alone, secluded from the world. His teammates were all within walking distance if he needed some company. But none of that seemed to suffice, none of that seemed to matter.

His mind is racing, and he isn’t quite sure why this feels so difficult, so painful to accept, to face. Everything was fine when they were in the scrim room. At least, until he saw Vincent. It wasn’t the first time, and wouldn’t be the last either. He had specifically chosen him over IgNar during their bootcamp, and he felt that it wouldn’t be a regrettable decision.

And Peter knows he’d be lying to himself were he to deny that he found his support quite charming. Yet however hard he tried to rationalize, to justify, there was no answer, no explanation for this incomprehensible, undiluted fear.

Of getting close. Of going further.

What is it about the fear of being close to someone, to let down one’s barriers, that scared him to no end?

 

_Why?_

 

There is no sound, no hint of any life in the room other than him, but the bleak darkness is a constant reminder of the unspeakable solitude. The room feels bitterly cold, however warm the covers were meant to be. He can hear, can feel the thundering of his heartbeat, can count the individual breaths that escaped his lips as his mind scrambled to formulate thoughts.

Sleep is not an attractive option, yet staying awake is even worse. Sooner or later, his mind and body would exhaust themselves, and sleep would overtake him. Sooner or later, his mind would give up on trying to rationalize what illogical. Sooner or later, the bliss of sleep would silence his thoughts, would still his trembling figure.

And perhaps sooner or later, he’d return his call.

With open arms.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't lie about updating it regularly :)
> 
> The truth will be revealed... eventually

** March 31st, 2016 **

_The summers of Toronto are reminiscent of those in Vancouver, but when it comes to Beijing, he doesn’t quite remember. Or perhaps he can’t._ _It’s been so long since he’s walked on Chinese soil, but Vincent can’t quite say that he missed it. He’s still a Canadian at heart. He’s still a_ Vancouverit _e_ _at heart._

_The curtains are draped over his window, but he can still look through a small crack. A crack so small that only he could see through, yet no one would see him. There’s daylight, that much is obvious. Summer is fast approaching and spring fleeting, so the hours of day with light are plentiful. Yet he cannot tell time, cannot differentiate morning from afternoon. Light is all he sees._

_At first glance, Toronto doesn’t seem all that different from Vancouver. A metropolis with skyscrapers that extend to the horizon, a melting pot of culture. He remembers how his parents told him that he wouldn’t feel intimidated here. That he wouldn’t feel excluded, wouldn’t feel isolated, in an environment that at least on the outside, closely resembled his hometown._

_League was the only comforting reminder that he had with him in an otherwise alien city. It’s what he missed the most: being able to play with friends, laugh, win some, lose some. A sense of home. His one and always constant._

_It had not occurred he realized that sense of home would be long gone._ _How nice it was_ _when he found a spot on their University’s_ _league team as their starting support. When Dream Team offered him that starting position for Challenger series._

_How wrong he had been._

** Now: **

The room is dark and empty, and Vincent must remind himself that he isn’t home. That the alien feeling of being away would eventually pass along with time. He was given the master bedroom, though he unfortunately has to share it from time to time.

But tonight was not such a night, and he’s grateful for that. He’d prefer suffering in silence, at least compared to speaking out loud. There’s a comforting silence in the room, one that he’s learned to appreciate since leaving Toronto. Because silence isn’t the same as emptiness. There’s the good kind of silence, and the bad kind of silence.  If there’s someone who knows that better than anyone, it’s Vincent.

He knows he has his thoughts to himself, and to himself only.

The sun has yet to rise, but some of its rays do make their presence known. Vincent’s aware of their practice regimen. It’s not too dissimilar from his schedule back in school, but it’s oddly cathartic and feels much better than before. Lying in bed, deep in thought, watching the sun rise to signify the start of a day. It’s all the same, it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. His time at school already feels like a lifetime ago, but it’s still a lifetime too short. A lifetime he’d rather forget, if he’d be honest.

Vincent lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair, wondering again and again if he should go back to sleep, if just for another hour. The fatigue in his limbs scream at him, but sleep is hardly an attractive option. At least he could differentiate dreams from reality whilst awake. At least his mind wouldn’t play tricks on him while he saw the light of day.

That surely must account for something, right?

This was a fresh start. A chapter of his life waiting to be written, completely independent of anything before. It wasn’t relevant. None of his teammates were aware, nor would they need to know. He’s been in control of his emotions, at least in public for as long as he could remember.

_And that’s why I should just get up and get through this day._

Vincent takes a deep breath, careful, slow steps leading him to the bathroom. The tiles are cold, a sharp contrast to the ambivalence of the carpet, as is the light that’s already on.

Always sleeping with one light on. It’s a habit he developed and has yet to shake off. Vincent can’t remember, can’t pinpoint exactly, when he acquired it. If his time at University felt like a lifetime ago, then his childhood must have been several more.

He gazed into the mirror, his reflection never failed to spark some element of surprise in him. The boy who stared back was always thin, for as long as he could remember. But not _this_ thin. He’s started eating better as of late, but it would take some time to recuperate. The shadows under his eyes are visible, but just barely. Although sleep was hardly a tantalizing option to him, it was still a necessity. He had actually gotten decent sleep over the past week, so he didn’t look as sick as before.

Thin, yes, but it could be much worse.

Small steps. That’s what he’s been told time and time again. Small steps to recuperate, to succeed, to restart. He knew these words by heart, and repeated them like a mantra. He hadn’t imagined it to work, were he to be honest with himself. Talk is cheap. It’s much easier to give advice than it is to take advice, that much was obvious. Yet it somehow feels surreal that there’s some truth and wisdom in those words. He hadn’t imagined this. Being on a new team, miles and miles away from his troubles, not waking up to his chest tightening, at the thundering of his heart.

It didn’t matter if everything was not all right. Those things were in the past, and this was now. This was his future waiting to be written. He feels, he _hopes_ that it would only be a matter of time until his mind learns to forget, learns to suppress the flashes and flickers of unpleasant memories.

Of days and tears long gone.

 

The floor is cold, as cold as the tiles in the washroom, as cold as Vincent had expected them to be in the morning. It’s unpleasant to his bare feet, but it’s at least a constant, something he can recognize, can identify. Vincent can smell the familiar scent of breakfast from the kitchen, and for a split second he’s reminded of his time back at university not too long ago. He remembered waking up to breakfast, to food he hadn’t needed to cook. It was just a few steps down from the room after all. It’s another constant that he can feel relief at. Food would always be food, it would never betray, never hurt. He might change over the years, but the relief and nourishment of food would not. That surely counted for something.

He stops short of entering the kitchen and has to remind himself that this is home to him now. This isn’t some alien environment that he’s been told to study in, so many miles away from home. There shouldn’t be any hesitation in leaving the confines of his room, especially not like this. So he takes a step in.

Vincent’s eyes dart. He’s not alone, and it should come as no surprise. The phenomenon of being a morning person is nothing new to him, but he hadn’t expected Peter to be awake this early. His eyes rest on Peter, who in turn pays no heed. It causes Vincent to frown at that, his impression that Peter was preoccupied.

Peter’s eyes are staring intently, unblinking and unwavering, at his phone screen. Yet the screen is black, lifeless. No light, no flicker, no vibration. Nothing at all. It hadn’t occurred to Vincent that someone could be so preoccupied with a phone he daren’t unlock.

“Hey, Peter,” he says with a practiced smile.

It catches Peter’s attention. There’s some element of manufactured composure on his face that Vincent can recognize from a mile away. “Hey,” Peter replies. Their gaze meets for only a fraction of a second, and Vincent can swear he sees a flash of surprise across Peter’s face. It vanishes as quick as it appeared.

_Why?_

 

** February 24th, 2016 **

_The atmosphere was stifling, dark and empty. Alone in the dorm room, away from all eyes, he could still feel the weighty gaze of his team. They hadn’t made playoff contention. Despite everything, countless hours poured into this, they still_ _weren’t_ good _enough._

_‘Defeat.’_

_The screen was still staring at him, like it always had. But this loss wasn’t like losing in solo queue. All the losses combined couldn’t measure up to the disappointment. Defeat. It was a recurring theme for him. Time and time again, defeat would find a way to invade his life._

_His eyes flickered over to the covered window, where the rays of the sun could not be contained. It was still early afternoon, the sky still bright with sunlight. But this world felt timeless to him, an endless cycle with no definitive start or end. It had not occurred to him that this could happen. That nothing could go the way he’d originally expected. His eyes glanced_ _over to the planner, the calendar he has pinned to the wall. The next exams are coming much faster than he expected._

_This was not good._

_It hadn’t occurred to him that he could fail now, after every sacrifice. If he failed this time, there wouldn’t be a second chance. No league, no school._

_Nothing at all._

** Now **

The air conditioning is strong, almost too much so. Despite the quickly rising temperatures, the room feels as cold as it always had, causing Vincent to shiver slightly. Perhaps it was the fact that he was only wearing a single layer of clothing, but that hardly feels like the reason either.

Their time together in Korea had been impersonal at best, a mere getting to know one another in preparation for their tenure as partners. It had only occurred to him then that he really had countless unanswered questions about Peter. A million questions regarding his past, his interests, his identity, everything. Something to make them more than just teammates, maybe even friends. For to him, “Doublelift” was as much of a mystery as “Peter **.”**

Perhaps Vincent mistook it for an initial barrier, a mere hurdle to overcome. No one warmed up that fast, and it was only natural. Natural indeed, but yet again, he bit his tongue at that. He hadn’t expected this. There is something inexplicable about the ease in talking to Peter on game-related matters, yet the untouchable difficulty about anything further.

 

It’s silent in the kitchen again, and Vincent can’t quite ignore the uneasy disquiet associated with it. Peter’s strange behavior yesterday is still at the forefront of his mind, but the topic is as unapproachable as it had been. He had not asked, had not wanted to question what he assumed to be a coincidence.

What he assumed was a passing awkwardness was clearly not that. He hates this, hated the stifling awkwardness that he couldn’t shake off. Yet he hates even more how hesitant he is. He hastily wipes his sweaty palms against his pants, the thundering of his heart against his ribcage increasingly difficult to ignore.

Peter’s strange behavior from yesterday was repeating itself. Vincent could not fathom, could not explain Peter’s seemingly irrational interest in a phone he wouldn’t even touch, only glare at. The look in his eyes is as indescribable as before, as inexplicably intense. Vincent hadn’t realized the beast he was trying to tackle.

Approaching an unapproachable subject. The very thought of it causes the air in his lungs to deplete, but he asks anyways.

“Peter. Are you alright?”

_Shit._

He bites his tongue, lips parted in mild stupor at having spoken those words. His eyes wander, dart at the speed of light, taking great care to avoid what was surely Peter’s dodgy gaze. Peripheral vision told him everything he needed to know and more.

In an instant, he could recognize a million different emotions cascade over Peter’s face. Each as undiscernible as the other. Was it fear? Relief? Anger? Sadness?

But if there’s one he could recognize, it was regret.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who helped beta this, your efforts are appreciated, this couldn't be what it is without you :)
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it, I really appreciate it :)


	4. Identification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus, here it is~

** August 31st, 2014 **

_The high ceiling of the busy airport is a familiar sight. Vincent’s traveled_ _countless times throughout his childhood, often for vacation more than anything. But not this time. Autumn had always been his least favourite season, for he often associated it with the start of a new school year. Back to elementary school, back to high school, whatever._

 _Yet this time, there was a genuine element of excitement. He wasn’t just returning to_ _school this time around, but rather, going_ to _school. A new one. Vincent smiles, remembering fondly of the time the University of Toronto first accepted him. How proud he was when he handed his parents his letter of admission_ _. Their warm smiles, comforting words._

 _He would miss them. He would miss it all.  Amongst many things, he would miss the comfort of homemade Chinese food, or something as simple as having his laundry done for him_ _. They would be things he would long for in the solitude of a dormitory._

_Yet he had chosen this path, and he alone would pave his own road for success. Becoming independent is just a small price to pay._

_He lets out a soft sigh, finding an empty seat amongst the many rows as he waits for his boarding section to be called. He offered the seat to one of his parents, but neither of them took his offer. It was only with begrudging acceptance that he finally took the seat, pouting as goodbye surely neared and Vancouver would be no more to him._

_“You know, you guys really didn’t have to come,” Vincent says quietly, a mix of Mandarin and English as he watches a plane take off from the runaway. “I could have handled this.”_

_His parents exchange expectant looks, as if it came as no surprise their son would say something like that. Small smiles, it almost looks manufactured, but perhaps at least part of it was genuine. There must be some mix of_ _pride, Vincent thinks, in them seeing him become independent, but also an equal twinge of sadness at knowing that very same fact._

_“We know, we know,” they respond. “It’s just… We wanted to see you off.”_

_That came as a bit of a surprise to Vincent. Some part of him had expected his parents to respond with something infantilizing, albeit with good intentions. Something along the lines of how he was still their baby, about how he still needs them, about how they would be anxious for his safety. But it was neither of that. For the first time, he feels some sense of adulthood and maturity through the eyes of his parents. Better late than never._

_“Thanks mom, thanks dad.”_

** Now: **

_How foolish I was to think I could take on the world on my own._

_I should have listened to you. Damn it all._

 

There’s an unspeakable, hanging silence that dominates the background of the kitchen. Vincent is straining his ears, trying to hear, search for the possibility of some kind of answer, anything to quell the disquiet. And yet he’s met with nothing. The world feels timeless to him, the seconds that pass could be minutes, could even be hours for all he knows.

This isn’t how the script was supposed to go. There’s always the trope, the cliché that just about everyone knows about. Someone asks the critical question, and their eyes meet. That in turn gives birth to something, and that something will rise out from the ashes. It signifies the start of a journey. Probably a good one, for stories are always written with that kind of end goal in mind.

But reality is not a picture-perfect story. The question might be critical, and their eyes may have met for a split second, yes, all of that happened, but it’s hardly anything Vincent would define as “good”. This is not the start of something, but rather a continuation of something he should have left behind. There might have been some element of painful identification in those eyes that Vincent couldn’t quite yet understand.

Something about the way Peter gazes at the mirror, at Vincent even, reminds him oddly of the way he looks at himself through the mirror. There’s pity, self-loathing, regret, anger. There are all the emotions he thought he knew best, or could identify with the most. Emotions he would never wish upon anyone else. It’s a kind of plethora of negativity only someone who’s walked the path of sorrow would ever understand.

It’s… scary.

This isn’t the Doublelift he’s seen on camera, smiling cockily with that polarizing aura. This isn’t the Peter he worked with just weeks ago in Korea at boot camp. This is merely the face of a man bearing the burden of self-loathing and regret. He knows it. He knows it so well, for it’s the face Vincent sees every time he looks in the mirror.

Day after day.

 

“Hey Vincent!”

 

The world resumes its passage of time.

Vincent suppresses a small gasp, snapping his head around to let his eyes rest on another familiar face. Kevin’s there, the fresh scent of soap hangs in the air as he walks into the kitchen in shorts and a tank top, grinning at him with excitement. Typical Kevin.

 

“Eating breakfast?”

 

It’s not so much a real question as it is a filler, rhetorical one, yet it nonetheless causes Vincent to re-evaluate what he’s doing. Of course, Vincent should be eating too. They all should be. His eyes flicker over to Kevin again, a wave of relief washing over Vincent when Kevin is visibly distracted with preparing his own meal. So, he merely lets out an unintelligible grunt, absentmindedly pouring the box of cereal from the center of the table into his bowl, all the while keeping his peripheral gaze locked onto Peter. He hasn’t so much as budged an inch, the spoon still tightly clutched in one hand, half dipped into the cereal. Yet his gaze has shifted from the screen of his phone, to something else.

Vincent could swear for a split second that _he_ was the one who had Peter’s attention.

It occurs to him that he has _no_ idea how to interact with this side of Peter. That outside of the game, outside of discussion _about_ said game, he’s clueless. Peter’s expressions, his mannerisms, his actions. Everything about him is unreadable and alien to him. It boggles his mind. How well they might play together, how well they might synergize in game, yet none of it translates to off the rift.

Their eyes meet for a split second again, and Vincent musters the courage to return an awkward smile. Maybe he could pass it off as early-morning fatigue. It’s immediately evident that Peter doesn’t want to talk. At least, not when they’re off the rift. Emotional walls that Vincent could recognize from a mile away.

Those are the same walls he’s built up to protect himself.

How ironic.

It’s silly really. Those are things that would simply never escape his eyes. Those are things that would never faze him. Perhaps he may have initially mistaken it for social awkwardness, but it’s evident that that is not the case. That one is not like the other. That he’s seeing the spitting image of himself, one that appears healed to the outside eye, but really isn’t.

 

“Has Parth told you?”

 

Vincent’s saved from having to answer when it’s Peter who responds. The manufactured ease and confidence is back, as if it had never left Peter in the first place. It’s the face of a man who’s learned to compartmentalize.

 

“No, what’s up?”

 

Vincent turns his head to see Kevin take a bite out of a piece of toast. The sound of the crunch is enough to fill the room, and Vincent can’t help but feel relieved that it’s not complete silence again.

“CLG cancelled their morning scrim block with us,” Kevin muttered, absentmindedly turning back to the fridge to take out a carton of milk. “No one else wants to scrim on such short notice, so we’re heading to the gym.”

 

_CLG._

 

Vincent isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or frustrated to hear that. First instinct tells him that this happens all the time. He’s played for both his University team and for Challenger Series. A cancellation of a scrim block happens all the time. It’s nothing special, yet his second thought is frustration. Because that’s one less block of practice that he gets, that’s one less block of practice that _all of them_ get.

But the third thought that runs through his mind is uncertainty. He’s never quite been able to quite wrap his head around what CLG means Peter, as both an individual and as a player on TSM. He’d imagined Peter must certainly feel slighted and still upset.

Or at least, that’s what _felt_ should be the normal train of thought.

Nothing ever makes sense to Vincent, nothing ever seems to go the way he had planned. That’s something he’s learned over his tenure at University.

 

Peter laughs, and it’s so sudden that it causes Vincent to jump in his seat.

 

“Fine. What more do you expect from a team like _that_?” he smirks, and for a fraction of a second, Vincent could swear he saw the slightest flicker of Peter’s eyes, again towards the blackened screen of his phone, still lying innocently on the table. It’s gone so quickly that he can’t be sure that it happened, let alone that it may have meant something. His eyes are back on Kevin, who merely returns the cocky smirk.

“Yeah,” he laughs. “The team that kicked you off right?” Kevin makes a face like he had just pulled of a rather witty, clever checkmate on Peter that causes Vincent to shudder. Vincent isn’t sure if it’s because the joke isn’t funny, or rather because he himself lacks the capacity to appreciate it. Perhaps it’s the fact that his former team not only narrowly beat their team for the trophy. That his former team had essentially paved the legacy for all future North American teams to follow.  Or if it’s the fact that Peter had been dropped by a team he’d loyally followed for years. Vincent could not say.

It’s not something he feels comfortable asking, probably not for a long time. Such a high-profile roster swap complemented by rather jarringly few details. Everyone left to grasp at straws and make assumptions for themselves.

Whether or not the details represent the truth or not, it’s none of Vincent’s business.

Peter lets out another chuckle, but there’s the slightest hesitation and waver in the tone. It’s wholly unnatural. Something’s wrong, but once more, Vincent’s left to decipher small details, small hints, because in the next instant, Peter’s back to a state of what appears to be normalcy.

“Yeah, fuck you dude,” Peter responds, his voice dripping with sarcasm. There’s the slightest hint of bitterness there. Kevin must not have picked it up. It’s so slight, it’s just so _barely_ there. Peter’s eyes briefly flicker over to Vincent, almost as if Peter could see through him, through every thought that Vincent was trying to piece together.

Kevin’s laughter fills the air, his attention turned back to his food. Vincent can see Peter’s lips curl into a rueful smile, brows furrowed as if there’s something painful about it. Something bittersweet. Vincent looks away again, unwilling to meet Peter’s dark eyes.

There’s the irrational part of him that still hopes that there’s nothing wrong. Peter’s distant behavior and unwillingness to allow their relationship to progress past teammates is just shyness, or perhaps even some element of social awkwardness. There’s no reason for Peter to insist on keeping things purely professional, unwilling to even cross into the realm of what may constitute platonic.

No reason, unless he has something to hide. Whether that “something to hide” was innocent or dark, Vincent could not say, but Peter’s steely gaze on him tells him that somehow, somewhere, the role he plays in the eyes of Peter extends beyond his tenure as teammate.

 

_But what?_

 

** October 1st, 2015 **

_Vincent’s alone, outside in sunny morning weather. The first game of Worlds is about to start, and he’s thankful the school WiFi is strong enough to reach outside. He’s not alone, he knows that, but having his phone out, watching a game of League of Legends in 2015 was hardly a rare sight._

_Vincent didn’t expect someone to walk up to him though._

_“Hey,” he smiles._

_It’s warm, sweet, and everything Vincent could possibly find attractive. Even the tone, the way the boy greets him has a special timbr_ _e, a quality associated with it that sounds both familiar and exotic at the same time._

_“Hey,”_ _“What’s up?”_

_“Oh, you play league too?” he smiles. The mention of that causes Vincent to finally glance over, Vincent’s eyes meeting his. His hair is neatly combed, gelled, but what strikes Vincent the most are his eyes. There’s a certain glimmer about them he can’t quite put into words._

_“Guess we learn something new every day_ _,” Vincent laughs. “You too?”_

_“Mhm. What’s your ign?” He asks. “I’m still a noob, so don’t judge me, haha.”_

_“I’ll tell you after this game, are you watching?” Vincent asks._

_“Yes! I’d love to.”_

_"By the way, what's your name?" Vincent ask again._

 

** Now: **

“I’m going to get ready then,” Vincent suddenly mutters, the weight of Peter’s gaze becoming too much. The cereal is half finished, but he no longer has the stomach to eat. If he could skip out on today’s gym session, he would, yet he cannot find a viable excuse. A part of him prays that they wouldn’t take too long, that they will come back, play their second and third scrim blocks, and be done with it all. Something where he knows he can find solace and ironic comfort in knowing that first and foremost is the game itself.

And not be faced with something that eerily reminds him of things he’d rather forget. There’s a slight pounding at the back of his head, and Vincent feels much better the moment he walks out of the kitchen, retracing footsteps towards the comfort of his bedroom. It’s silly, he realizes, and even then, he feels that there’s no true privacy in a house they all share.

Some distance is still better than none, is it not? At least, it’s what he so desperately wants to believe. Being miles away from his own problems, still feels better than being right there, reliving it again, seeing it so vividly emblazoned in his mind.

It’s frightening.

When Vincent turns his head back to glance one last time, he sees Peter again. This time however, his gaze is not on Vincent. It’s not on the darkened screen of his phone either. His eyes are shut in what appears to be a mix of regret and acceptance. Coming to terms with something. Peter’s just sitting still, staring down at what is most certainly soggy cereal by now, the occasional twirl of his spoon the only sign of life.

 

 _It doesn’t work that easily_.

_You know that._

 

He doesn’t want to look anymore. It’s in the past. It’s all over, and he has no reason to dig it up again. It doesn’t matter if there’s another person who identifies the same way. It doesn’t matter if this very same person has shut everyone out.

Perhaps Vincent would have done the same.

 

_Isn’t that right?_

_You wanted this, didn’t you?_

 

Those thoughts catch him by surprise, his breath hitches. He had thought that they were gone. Or at least somewhere deeply buried, someplace where he doesn’t have to face it day after day. The world seems to spin, and he has to struggle to keep his balance again. He’s glad that he’s already climbed up the flight of stairs, that his room is mere steps away, that he doesn’t even need to open the door to get in. He takes one, two, and finally a third step in, weakly closing the door behind him.

There’s a familiar voice in the background, a yell, probably addressed to him. Something about how they have an hour before they leave. Something about how they were going to do VOD review when they come back.

 _Something_.

He feels disoriented, dizzy even, and it takes a couple stumbling steps before he can get to the bed. The familiar comfort of the mattress helps to calm him a little for sure, but it’s far from enough to block out everything. He has some quiet time, he has some alone time.

 

_At least for now._

 

** October 8th, 2015 **

_“Hey man.”_

_Vincent turns around, his eyes landing on someone whom Vincent had grown to expect around this time. One whole week, it may as well have been banal to even greet in such fashion._

_“Hey,” Vincent smiles back. “Short time no see, huh?”_

_That sounds like a horrible attempt to deform a well-known expression, but it nonetheless elicits a laugh from the boy. Vincent supposes at least_ some _people like his sense of humor._

_“I wonder why that is,” he ponders for a bit. “Hey, I never asked, but what program are you in?”_

_“Economics,” Vincent answers, nodding. “And you?”_

_“Same! We probably have the same classes. The rooms are pretty big, so maybe we just didn’t see each other,” he says, tilting his head to the side. There’s that damn irresistible smile again, and Vincent can’t help but blush a little._

_“Are you going to sit down?” Vincent asks, moving his backpack to the side to make room. “Come on, the game’s about to start. We have some time before class starts.”_

_Vincent averts his gaze from the screen, where Phreak is rambling about something, up towards him. There’s that trademark nod, that trademark smirk, that slight grunt when he takes a seat beside Vincent. He sets his own backpack aside, poking his head a little towards Vincent to gaze at the screen._

_“Sorry, I forgot to charge my phone today,” he says. “Are you okay with sharing a screen?”_

_Of course, he is._

** Now: **

Vincent had been clutching his blanket, the pillow covering his eyes. Blinded from the world, blinded from his troubles, even if only for a little bit. There’s no longer the same pounding at his head, no longer the insidious voice from within. At least for now, he felt a bit better.

At least for now, he had won some degree of control. Always like this, some days better than others. He knows it’s part of the process, that despite everything, progress isn’t linear, isn’t consistent, and surely isn’t painless. That the healing process would take time, that he might never attain full recovery, that he one day would have to face everything instead of burying it and forgetting it.

Vincent lets out a breath, glancing over at his phone. There’s a good twenty minutes left, surely enough time to grab a little more food, to make up for his lack of an appetite during breakfast. Even though he’s still not hungry, he _has_ to eat a little.

He takes a few steps towards the door, carefully unlocking it, all the while pressing an ear against the door.

He hears nothing. He hears no one.

There’s the slightest exhale of relief, and he pushes the door open, taking careful steps towards the staircase again. He takes a step, followed by another, and finally a third one no less. He stops in his tracks, the sound of what appears to be a soft cry stunning him.

Vincent can’t be certain about what he thought he had heard. Once more, he tells himself that this is none of his business, that he wouldn’t want someone to do the same if they had heard his heavy breathing and muffled sobs just minutes earlier.

Curiosity wins out.

Like it always had.

Vincent retraces his steps back up the stairs, and this time, he could swear he made out the sound, the phonology of the words being spoken. His eyes widen when he realizes the sound is coming from Peter’s room no less. There’s what resembles a strangled sob, a sound that Vincent can’t even ascertain the words behind the seeming unintelligibility of it.

He takes one step closer, carefully letting his foot touch the ground with cold precision. Not a sound, not a trace that he was there. It’s so quiet, it’s almost inaudible to him. It surely must be inaudible to Peter. Vincent tilts his head just slightly, until the entire frame of the door is visible to him. It’s not fully closed. He can faintly make out Peter’s frame, his back turned towards Vincent, phone pressed against his ear. Peter must have been confident that no one would interrupt them or hear him.

How wrong Peter had been.

It’s just him, Peter, and whoever it is that Peter is talking to on that phone.

Suddenly, Vincent hears indistinct footsteps, surely coming from the main floor. Someone is coming. So, he turns back. Letting his eyes fall, averting his gaze. But nonetheless, it doesn’t stop the strangled sobs from ringing in his mind. It doesn’t stop the few comprehensible words that had been spoken.

And it most certainly did nothing to diminish the weight of the final words he could hear.

 

“I’m sorry Zaq.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... If you enjoyed it leave a comment? (or if you didn't)
> 
> Any and all feedback is appreciated.


	5. Pendulum

It’s the first week of the summer split, a new support, a new roster, a new TSM.

Spring split is over, along with the weight of the loss from two months ago. This is their chance to start anew and forget. Move on, figuratively and literally Taking a loss here, although technically inconsequential in the long run- speaks volumes to the rest of the world. And to Peter? On a personal level.

After that debilitating loss to CLG through a mere teamfight, watching them ascend to the finals of MSI, watching _Zaq_ hoist the trophy without him, winning here couldn’t mean more to him. He’s here to reclaim the metaphorical throne that Zaq, Stixxay, and the rest of CLG now sit on.

They’ve been working hard for the past few weeks, slugging through the triple scrim block, slugging through the endless discussion for hours on end. All of it for this first critical moment of a long journey that they’re about to embark on. If they don’t win this game, then it will have been for nothing.

The doors that lead to the stage are still shut, but the impatient cheering of the crowd is unmistakable. It’s a stark contrast to the silence and tension between all of them as they stand in a line in front of the door before them. The clock is counting down and they’ll soon be on stage.

Peter can hear Weldon say something to Vincent, seeing as it’s his first time on stage after all. He pauses for a second to wonder how Vincent must be feeling. Naturally, it leads to another thought. They haven’t spoken, or at least, haven’t _really_ spoken for the past week. The memory of Vincent staring hard, expression unreadable, besides confusion is bright and sharp in his mind.

But why?

He exhales, glancing briefly behind him to meet his support’s line of sight. It pains him to see that there’s once again the solemn, unreadable expression. The face of a reserved man. But whether it’s natural or manufactured, Peter cannot be certain. All he knows is that the pressure is on Vincent. Well, to be fair, it’s on all of them, but as the new member of the team, the world will have their eyes on him to perform and succeed.

And so succeed they shall.

Peter can feel his heart hammering in chest despite the veneer of emotionless control on his face. The pounding nervousness has not and will never recede- it’s part of competition. He’s grown used to it. And in a few seconds, they’ll start their match against CLG.

Against Zaq.

His teeth are grinding against one another- was it involuntary? There’s a dull ache and even duller anger. And in an instant, it’s gone. Replaced by the desire to win without mercy. The door opens, and Kevin steps in, followed by Dennis, then Søren, then Peter, and finally Vincent.

He takes one more deep breath, and the cheers erupt.

 

**_ October 10th, 2015 _ **

_“Hey Zaq,” Peter says, a frantic hand reaching forward. Everyone has left the scrim room. Everyone but them. There are mere minutes, mere seconds before they’re on stage. They haven’t done this in so long,_ Peter _hasn’t made worlds for so long._

_This will be their redemption arc. He knows it._

_But firstly, there’s another, although far less practically important, more emotionally pressing matter at hand. Peter realizes that he and Zaq haven’t really spoken for a while. That they’ve been distant to one another, and that Peter’s partly to blame for that._

_The stress of Worlds has been debilitating, and he knows that his emotions got the better of him time and time again. It’s a reason, but not an excuse. He’s doing his best to improve on that, to straighten up his act. Not just for Zaq, but for the rest of the team, and by extension, himself._

_He pauses, looking at Zaq in the eyes. Peter can’t admit it, but the unfeeling gaze his support returns hurts. There’s definitely something hidden behind those dark eyes, but they’re certainly not manifesting at this very moment. It’s frightening, almost. Like looking into the eyes of someone who has all but given up on him. He knows that look. He remembers it on the scariest night of his life like it is yesterday._

_“Yes, Peter?” his support eventually replies, tone unfeeling and cold. “We don’t have much time, you know that right?”_

_Cold steel. That’s what it feels like. Cold, cutting steel against his skin. Peter steps back, eyes blinking, perturbed, but quickly recollects himself. He clears his throat, and musters the strength to look at Zaq in the eyes again._

_“Hey, I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting,” he murmurs. “I don’t mean to be such a jerk, you know.”_

_“Well, you really fucked that up,” Zaq replies, venom on his tongue unmistakable. But even Peter can tell there’s a slight hesitation and regret when he speaks._

_“Can we talk about it later?” Peter presses again, a hand on Zaq’s arm. “Please?”_

_Several seconds pass, garnering no response. Sooner or later, someone’s going to come back in to escort them out. They cannot enter the stage as three, Peter knows that,_ Zaq _knows that. And so he lets out a breath, relenting._

_“Okay.”_

_But when Peter leans in for a kiss, he’s met with something he hasn’t felt for a while._

_Ice cold resistance._

 

** Now: **

“That was a great showing Vincent,” is the first thing Vincent hears when they step back into their scrim room after a 2-0 crush over CLG. He receives multiple pats on the back, before letting out a small laugh, scratching his head at the compliments.

He’s never been great at receiving them- always finding himself in the seat of awkwardness, but Vincent’s nonetheless proud of their victory today. They’ve dethroned CLG from the get go and have started on a strong note.

Vincent nods on impulse, taking care to contain his excitement and maintain modesty. He’s feeling good, of course he is. To have such a strong showing, win his first match, and start the path to renewing his life. He smiles back at Kevin and Søren, muttering a shy thanks. He can still feel the rush from the two games they just played. It’s normal, of course, even if his face paints a different image altogether. It’s not his first competitive match, but it’s still his first match on the big stage. It’s a great feeling, and it almost feels like things will get better.

He lets out a sigh of contentment, sinking into his seat as he looks around, eyes instinctively searching for Peter.

Of course, they hadn’t spoken, or at least, hadn’t _really_ spoken for a while, weeks to be precise. Outside of the game, outside of the scrim room, the streamed duo queues, interaction remained limited. Nonetheless, the afterglow of victory is something that is universal- binding together members of a team, irrespective of everything else. The pleasure from winning as a team is a constant, the relief from it no different. Surely, they had something to talk about now.

Surely…

Vincent knows that Peter had stayed behind to deliver an interview while the rest of them went backstage and back into their scrim room. It won’t take long, just a few minutes, but when Vincent glances at his phone, it’s evident that it’s taken longer than just a few minutes. Perhaps he’s stayed behind to talk to someone. Riot crew? Friends in the audience? He can’t tell.

It’s not really his business, but when curiosity wins out, he asks anyways.

“Hey, where’s Peter?” he murmurs, looking around. Søren shrugs, and Dennis looks none brighter.

Vincent looks around again, finally garnering a reply from Parth.

“Probably the restroom,” he murmurs. “Or he’s talking to someone. He’ll be back soon.”

Part of Vincent wonders what it is that keeps Peter preoccupied. Someone who otherwise seems to show relentless dedication to be the best. Someone who he struggles time and time again to relate to on a personal level. But they’ve won, and that surely accounts for something, right? He has questions that were left unanswered, so many things he wishes to know.

And so many things he wants to forget.

They have a couple moments of downtime, and so he’s allowed to his own thoughts for a while. Naturally, the first thing that comes to his mind were the events from weeks ago, vividly emblazoned in his mind. Cryptic silence outside of gameplay is something he’s grown accustomed to, but Vincent nonetheless cannot shake it off, cannot fathom what it is that made Peter feel so incredibly distant. When he looks into Peter’s eyes, there’s always a brief instant of identification and understanding. A brief glimpse into the void left by something he cannot fully comprehend. Eyes that remind Vincent of his own. What lies that he tries so desperately to conceal.

He sighs, feeling the high of the game slowly ebb away, and his senses are returning to him. He needs to use the washroom- funny, he thinks, when he realizes he still isn’t used to referring to it by “restroom”. Nonetheless, his steps guide him out the door, excusing himself in a hushed voice.

Maybe he’s overthinking everything. They’re competitors first, teammates second, and friends third, right? And with the defeat of spring final fresh in the minds of everyone, it’s only natural what comes first is the game. But even then, it doesn’t give room to justify the coldness that is Peter.

He shudders, his steps leading him towards the men’s room. It’s silent, save for the residual roaring of the crowd as the next teams prepare to take to the stage. It’s just TSM, CLG, and the other two teams- Vincent can’t quite remember off the top of his head- that are playing today. He won’t be spotted, but it’s not really that important.

He takes another step, then another, but then freezes again. He’s about to turn a corner, but it’s then that he hears a voice- one that’s unmistakable. It’s Peter’s. He can’t get to the washroom without getting past Peter- and whoever he’s talking to, that much is obvious. Furthermore, Vincent doesn’t want to reveal himself. So he takes the only other approach that he knows how to.

Wait. And listen.

He pokes his face from behind the corner, eyes instinctively searching for Peter’s. Unsurprisingly, he finds the man standing at what appears to be the entrance of another team’s practice room. His expression is somewhere between upset and desperate. Like someone fighting down the tears but pushing their limits. His voice is ragged, a clear indicator of the turmoil that’s building.

“Listen, can I not talk to him?” Peter asks, his voice struggling to stay a calm, indoor level.

 _Who is he talking to?_ Vincent wonders, heart hammering against his ribcage so hard that he fears it’d expose him. Holding his breath, he stretches his neck further, allowing a better glimpse of the corridor.

It’s Zikz. It’s CLG’s coach, in his suit. His expression is grave, stern, and there’s an unmissable resentment that lingers in the way his eyes burn holes through Peter. Like the remnants of buried past that Vincent can only being to fathom.

“Listen Peter, you can’t be here,” CLG’s coach replies, harsh and cold. “It’s over, you know that right? You’ve won, what else do you want?”

“You know what I want Tony, god fucking damn it!” Peter groans, burying his face in a hand. “Zaq is here isn’t he? Can’t he come out to talk?”

“Peter, I’ve already said no, and you know this is against conduct,” Zikz reiterates. “Leave. I’m not asking you again.”

“I know he’s there…” Peter says, but even from where Vincent is, he can recognize the defeat in his voice against the unflinching steel of Zikz’ voice. “Aphro… Zaq… Please, give me another chance,” he breaths. “Not… Not him…”

To which Vincent freezes in his place, lips parted in stupor, back against the wall. In that instant, he realizes what he’s just heard. And in that instant, the puzzle pieces begin to fall in place. Why Peter’s been distant. What he’s hiding. But what of it? What more? They were teammates.  They were close, sure, Vincent ponders, but why is Peter so damn worked up? He shakes his head, deep in ponder, lost in his thoughts. He can’t even bring himself to move when footsteps are slowly heading his way. He can’t bring himself to notice when Peter glances his way as the marksman makes his way back to his room. Frozen in place, frozen his eyes, the scene plays before him, like it was just yesterday. Fresh in his mind, like the wounds never healed. Everything in his line of sight, but nothing within arm’s reach.

 

**_ January 3rd , 2016 _ **

_There is snow as far as the eye can see. Toronto’s winters are worse than Vancouver’s, as Vincent has quickly realized. White everywhere. Even taking steps through the snow is a hassle, but this has to be done. His teeth are chattering, and he can’t tell if it’s involuntary- due to the frigid cold, or if it’s partially intentional- to contain his anger._

_Trembling, trying not to cry, steps lead him closer and closer to the address. He’s always struggled with this, trying to separate anger from tears. But he fails time and time again. It’s like they’re interconnected. He finally approaches the door of the house he’s seen several times by now. Vincent knows that_ he’s _home, he has to be. There is no reason for him not to be. He rings the doorbell, hastily glancing at his phone, a touch of anger when he sees no reply to his text._

(32 minutes ago) Vincent Wang: _Hey I need to talk to you. Now._

_He’s breathing hard, he can see each individual breath condense upon contact with the cold air, but he strangely doesn’t feel that cold. It’s probably the rush of blood in his veins that’s keeping him warm- and angry. He closes his eyes, willing himself to calm down, if just a bit. He needs to stay calm, he needs to state his case, he can’t go weak now._

_When no one comes, Vincent rings the doorbell again, growing impatient. It doesn’t take long for someone- but not_ him _, to open the door. It’s his roommate. Vincent’s seen this person multiple times, an international student, if memory serves. His name, Vincent hasn’t quite caught on, but it’s besides the point._

 _“Is_ he _here?” Vincent asks, exhaling hard. His eyes glance toward upstairs- where_ his _bedroom must be. No room for ambiguity here then._

_The boy nods, a worried expression when Vincent steps in the house, but relents, and steps back into the kitchen. Vincent’s alone again, glaring at the closed door just upstairs- the light is on, as he expected. Gritting his teeth, he hastily removes his boots, dropping his backpack, and makes his way up the flight of stairs._

_He remembers walking up these steps the first time, about two months ago if he remembers. They were working on an assignment together, and it was Vincent’s first time stepping out of the dorm and campus. Nerve-wracking indeed. Little did he know that would be far from the first time he’d be here. How ironic that he’s right there again._

_Stopping outside the door, he knocks twice, the second harder than the first._

_“I know you’re there, come out,” says Vincent, struggling to stay calm._

_The door opens, and there he stands, his usual perfect, clean cut-self stepping out of the room like every other goddamn time. Unmistakable charming blue eyes, perfect picturesque skin. The face of a God. But Vincent isn’t here to admire the boy’s looks this time._

_Far from it._

_“Why?” He starts, shaking his head. “Why did you post that picture when you knew…?” Vincent emphasizes, trying to catch his breath. He shakes his head, impatiently tapping on the Instagram icon on his phone screen. The app blows up, showing something he’s feared would see public eye._

_It’s a picture of him, of_ them _. One that’s far from innocent. One that he’s far from wanting the world to know. A kiss._

_The boy stands firm, raising an eyebrow in concern. But not enough- and Vincent can see that he doesn’t quite get it._

_“Listen, you agreed to keep things on the down-low. You told me that’s what you wanted as well,” Vincent hisses, shaking his head. “Why? Why would you post this?”_

_He shrugs, trying to console Vincent, who merely shrinks back. “Hey, Vincent, you know I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he says, charm and suave in every word. “I just thought it’d be alright.”_

Alright?

_“No…” Vincent breaths. “No, it’s not okay.”_

_They stand there for several moments, eye to eye, like a battle of wills. Vincent is still angry, no doubt, but something else is beginning to manifest. Something he was damn afraid would happen. Damn it all. Damn this guy for how goddamn perfect he is._

_He can’t keep his anger for long._

_“Vincent,” he eventually says, careful steps to Vincent’s side, gently closing the door behind the Vancouverite, the click of a lock causing Vincent’s heart to skip a beat._

_He knows what’s coming._

_But strangely, he isn’t afraid. The anger is quickly waning, and he hates it. He hates his inability to stay angry. He resents his weakness. Somehow, somewhere, he must have known that this would happen. That he would give up again, and submit to him. Like every single time._

_“Vincent, I’m sorry,” the boy speaks again, a warm hand finding its way on Vincent’s still cold shoulder. It sends jolts down Vincent’s spine, and it doesn’t help when he wraps his other arm around Vincent’s back. “It won’t happen again, okay?” There’s some unnerving beauty about the way he speaks- something almost surreal in how possessive it is, like choking caramel._

_Vincent doesn’t answer, only wordlessly trying to fight down the instinctive nod that comes. He has no room to speak, he has no room to run anymore. Well, to be more precise, he definitely could still run- but he no longer wants to. Because in mere seconds, the boy’s lips are against his neck, teasing and chaste, before making their way to his lips- rapidly warming. His head is rushing, his mind blanks, and he loses control._

_Time and time again._

_Damn it. Damn it all._

** Now: **

“Vincent?”

Someone is speaking to him. The voice is one part alien, one part familiar, and both parts incomprehensible.

“Vincent?!”

It’s sharper this time, it’s clearer.

His vision blurs, zooming in and out, before finally refocusing. He’s staring at the wall- and has been for an amount of time that he no longer knows. It’s Kevin that fills his frontal vision in an otherwise dimly lit, soundless hall.

Vincent’s been standing there for minutes. The realization that he still needs to use the washroom is a faint memory, and even the scene that just passed moments ago- with Peter and Zikz is somewhere else in his mind right now. He’s stupefied, staring blankly at his top laner, who in turn grows increasingly confused and concerned. Vincent knows that he has to move, he has to speak eventually.

“I… Kevin,” he finally gets out, eyes still comically wide. “Is… Where’s Peter?”

The question must seem incredibly stupid- as evidenced by Kevin’s change in expression. Nonetheless, it’s better than the concern that he wore moments ago. “Uh, he just went back into the scrim room. How did you not see him?”

“Oh,” Vincent replies, letting out a sigh. So, it wasn’t just a trance. “I don’t know. I guess I walked in the wrong direction. First time at the LCS building after all, right?” He laughs, feigning some sense of control and respite. Relief touches him when Kevin takes it, laughing in earnest and patting him on the shoulder.

“Okay, come back soon, we’re going to head back in a bit,” he says, before heading back into the scrim room himself.

Vincent’s alone again, taking steps to finally lead him in the way of the washroom. Quiet steps. One after another, and he finally encounters the man he realizes that he’s never actually spoken to before. The man he called his idol pre-LCS. Peter’s old partner.

Aphromoo.

The CLG support steps out of the entrance to the washroom, and their eyes meet for a brief instant. Vincent’s confident that seeing as they’ve never spoken before, there should be no animosity, nothing to fear about looking the man in the eyes.

But he soon realizes that it’s far from the truth.

In the next moment, Aphro has his attention elsewhere- his eyes are in the direction of the CLG scrim room. The door opens, and to Vincent’s surprise, it’s Stixxay who steps out. Pale faced, unfeeling, unemotional. That’s how Vincent describes him. Well, that’s how Vincent _described_ him. Because that’s not what he sees this time. Something rare that he’s never seen on stage from Stixxay.

A smile.

The enemy marksman grins at his support, one hand gently on Aphromoo’s shoulder, and their eyes meet for a brief flash. Then it’s all gone when the rest of the team steps out- and proceed to exit the building.

Vincent’s alone again.

Alone with his thoughts. He wishes that it weren’t so, that he hadn’t blanked out, that he had asked Peter when he had the chance. But it’s gone. He has to wait until they’re home. Somewhere deep in his mind, he wonders if this is fate.

 


End file.
